


Wishing, and hoping, and praying...

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sex, Bossy Sam, M/M, Manhandling, Topping from the bottom Sam, season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 13:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: Sam's done letting Dean run away from him, from them, and he's more than done with his brother's bred in the bone self loathing. The Djinn may have started this, but Sam is most definitely going to finish it.





	Wishing, and hoping, and praying...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verucasalt123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/gifts).



> Set in Season Two, straight after the Djinn attack left Dean and Sam feeling like rung out dish-rags. This is for miss verucasalt123 for the spn_j2_xmas exchange, and I do so hope she likes it :) I had a great deal of fun writing it. Thank you to jj1564 for her tireless beta skills and indeterminate patience with my waffling rambles. Taken from this prompt - ”Mom never died, we never went hunting and you and me just never uh... you know.” - and run with ;)

Dean’s never spoken of it, and Sam’s never forced the issue, but the memory is as fresh today as it was when Dean threw himself in his boosted ride and drove hell for leather, with the taste of his brother’s come still making him lick his lips, whimper, and want to bash his forehead against the steering wheel.

Laying on the back seat of the Impala, head cushioned against his folded arms, Dean studies the soft curls clinging to the nape of Sam’s neck as he hums off-key to some god awful hair metal tune.

How long will it take Dean to find his balance, to stop wavering between self loathing and gratitude?

Gratitude for what?

The fact that Sammy’s never mentioned the drunken fumbling in his darkened college dorm room, or the fact that despite everything that’s happened between them in the last two years, Sam _still_ refuses to let Dean lay down and die.

Dean hasn’t thought about that night in a long time, not actively, at any rate.

The feel of Sam’s hands gliding along his sweat-soaked spine is an always present sense memory, just waiting to pounce whenever the Hunter allows his mind to wander, but he’s not been consumed by it for what seems like ever.

He thought he’d gotten a handle on his urges, on his unnatural _need_ for Sam, but the Djinn venom is still playing tricks on his abused psyche and he can’t shake the feeling that if he doesn’t do something drastic, he’ll ruin everything.

This hard fought for silence on the subject of how loud Sammy screams when he’s coming, or how far back Dean can swallow his brother’s cock, is on the verge of being brought right out into the open at full volume, where it could well break them.

Sam’s head sways from side to side in time to the headache inducing drum beats and ear splitting caterwauling of Vince Vincente’s atrocious song stylings, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if the only reason Sam is here, driving his car and abusing his crackling stereo, is because once, a long time ago, he begged Dean to fuck him like a juggernaut.

The shame in Djinn!Sam’s eyes at the very _thought_ of being connected by DNA to the shambles that is Dean Winchester is like a butter knife straight to the heart. No quick, painless cuts with a finely honed blade. It’s all dull, slow slashes that leave his chest gaping and his shortcomings exposed to the air; a festering pus-filled  wound that just won’t heal.

Which world is right, which reality is correct? Is Dean a monster, or worse, a thief? A thief that snuck in and stole Sam’s chance at a life without memories bathed in the blood of those they’ve had to bury in unmarked graves beside dark roads they’ll never drive along again?

Wishing is dangerous, Dean’s just learned that the hard way.

Wishing almost got Dean erased from existence, and yet he still harbours one, nurses it beneath the sarcasm and cynicism that keeps him upright and moving forward.

He wishes that Sam could have a normal life.

What if Dean walked away, just packed a bag and fucked off out of Sam’s world, forever?

Sam assures Dean that this life, no matter how screwed up it is, is the better life. The _real_ life. The one where they fight and throw fucks into each other after hard days on the road or long nights wading through monster innards - but - what if?

Would Sammy finally become that awesome smart alec lawyer he was destined to be, with a wife and kids and a white picket fence garlanded with fairy lights in December and paper chains in June?

A big fuzzy dog lumbering around a well kept yard, barking lazily at the children who giggle and screech as they run barefoot across freshly mown lawns already strewn with discarded toys and the detritus of a normal everyday life.

No Winchester that Dean’s aware of has ever been afforded the chance at _normal_ and if you’d questioned him on his need for it a few days ago, he’d have denied it until he was blue in the face, but now, after this latest hunt, Dean’s afraid that he’s damned Sam to a life of shadows, shame and sadness.

Dean worries, every damned day, that his inability to let Sam go is the only reason he’s still here.

That and one very drunken night too many nights ago to count, where Dean had stolen a car and crept through Sam’s college bedroom window with a mind to admit out loud the reason he couldn’t cope with his brother being half way across the country and possibly in someone else’s bed.

Eyes drifting closed, heart rate slowing, memory of Sam sprawled out beneath him still burned into his eyeballs, Dean makes a decision that might save Sam from a lifetime of regret and missed opportunities, and himself from the gnawing guilt that’s trying to swallow him whole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s well past two in the morning and Sam can’t sleep. He keeps beating his fist into the scratchy material and lumpy stuffing that’s pretending to be his pillow, and he still can’t get comfy enough to let the world fade away.

He’s worried.

He’s more than worried, he’s afraid.

Dean’s been _off_ since the Djinn attack, and Sam can’t get him to talk, to open up and admit there’s anything wrong.

That’s par for the course with Dean, because if there’s one thing Sam’s older brother is really good at it’s _not_ talking, but this is different; this is something else entirely.

Sam keeps catching Dean staring at him with an ashamed and sorrow-filled look on his face.

It’s been six years since he saw those emotions in Dean’s eyes, and even then he knew they spelled trouble - pain and longing and an inability to get through to his pig headed brother who was willing to run away rather than face the fact they had feelings for each other.

Sam’s never thought of Dean as a cruel person. Sure, he can be mean, he can be downright fucking nasty, but he isn’t cruel, and yet the cruelest thing he’s ever done to Sam is allow him a taste of something forbidden and then yank it away, lock up the possibility and throw away the key.

The very last time Sam saw that look on Dean’s face, Dean drove two hundred miles away and refused to speak to him until he _had_ to ask for help finding their father.

With that terrifying thought running around in his mind, Sam wills his brain to switch off and slams his face into the lumpy pillow.

~~~~~~~~~

Dean slides behind the Impala’s wheel and checks the motel room door in his rearview.

Satisfied Sammy isn’t going to come barreling out after him, he flicks the key in her ignition and revs her engine.

~~~~~~~~

Sam awakes to the oh so familiar sound of Baby’s engine gunning and throws himself from his buckled motel bed, leaving behind a trail of tangled sheets and discarded socks. Ramming bare feet into sweaty boots, it takes seconds for Sam to slam through the door separating him from the parking lot, but it’s too late. The blinking tail lights of Dean’s precious car wink at him as he stands, dumbstruck, staring after his brother, running, again. “You moron. _Come back_.”

Spinning and ducking back inside before his bare chest and Scooby-Doo boxers raise the eyebrows of any passing patrons, Sam scans the room for a sign, a hint, as to where Dean might have gone. “I fucking knew you were freaking out.”

He’s talking to himself because the silence is deafening and he’s on the verge of losing his shit and tearing the motel room to pieces. Throwing on a shirt and stuffing his still booted feet into the legs of his already ripped jeans, Sam almost overbalances, and that’s when he sees the crumpled piece of paper on the table next to the busted television.

Shaking his head, fighting back tears of anger at Dean’s utterly ridiculous self sacrificing need to put everyone else ahead of himself, Sam snatches the note up and starts reading.

_Sammy,_

_This last one was - fuck it was rough._

_I know I’m about to break the unwritten rule, but, I can’t actually do this any more. Six years, three weeks, two days. That’s how long it’s been since I felt you under me. You say this is the _right_ universe, better here than there, but there you hated me, you walked away from me, and you were better off. I don’t know if they, you and me, we’d - I don’t know if _it_ happened that way with them, but I sure as shit know that _you_ would be well shot of me._

_I’m inches away from kneeling at your feet and begging you to let me suck that glorious cock of yours and if we open that can of worms we’ll never get it shut again. I know you’d let me, and that’s more frightening than wanting to do it in the first place, so I’m out of here._

_Take it easy little bro, kick it in the ass._

_Let me go._

_Dean._

“You fucking dick, you absolute fucking idiot - I - I - “

Sam loses his voice as he sinks to the floor and shreds the note in his hands, tears it into tiny unrecognisable pieces.

With tattered bits of paper sticking to his eyelashes and hair, Sam scrubs the back of his hand across his face and snarls. “Oh no you don’t. Not this time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean’s knocking back his fifth whiskey in as many minutes and is being eyed up and down like fresh meat by a waitress who looks like she’d break him, twice, and he’s about to tip her the wink and offer his services, when the door to the bar swings inwards and smashes a hole in the already flaking plaster on the wall.

On any other day Dean would turn shocked eyes on whoever was _making an entrance_ , with everyone else, but this day he already knows who it is and he’s two parts pissed three parts impressed that Sam managed to find him. He’s been paying attention the last couple of years.

Without turning, without even raising his head, Dean holds his glass above his head and tips it in Sam’s general direction. “That was fast, Sammy-boy, you steal a decent ride this time?”

The sight of Dean’s hunched shoulders and half empty glass forces a reaction from Sam that takes him by surprise, but is a welcome distraction from the overwhelming urge to scream at his brother across the bar.

Striding forward, slamming his hands down on Dean’s shoulders, Sam drags him backwards off his bar stool. “Outside, now!”

The waitress with a mind to make Dean a meal stares at the display and thinks she’s never seen anything hotter. Shame though, this one looked like he had potential. Why are all the prettiest ones gay?

Clearing her throat and studying the back of the bar, she squints into the mirror at the two men facing off against each other.

One, the taller skinnier dude with cute curls caressing the nape of his neck, is practically frothing at the mouth. The other, the one she’d been hoping would provide some much needed entertainment after her shift, is shaking his head and looking anywhere but the eyes of the man who’s clearly got a bee in his bonnet about something.

“Sam, go’way.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean - you fucking moron - no, I’m not going to walk away and let you drown in a whisky bottle, blaming yourself for every fucked up thing that’s happened in our lives. Unless you want me to air this dirty laundry here, get _out_ **side**!”

Dean’s all set to turn back around and retrieve his barstool when Sam lands a jaw rattling punch on his chin, knocking him off balance enough to slam his shoulders into the bar.

Staring at Sam like he’s completely lost his mind, Dean narrows his eyes and hisses. “Don’t. Don’t do it.”

Sam doesn’t give an inch, not a damned fucking inch.

Stepping in close, pressing his mouth up against Dean’s ear, he bites down and tugs, before whispering. “I’m not some prissy eighteen year old now Dean, and I’ll be fucked if you’re gonna drive away from me _again_. Your choice, here, or outside. Last warning.”

Sam latches back onto Dean’s ear and sucks, knowing it will knock his legs out from under him.

The warmth from Sam’s breath, coupled with the feel of canines digging painfully into his earlobe, forces all of the well thought through arguments about why this is such a bad idea and why he belongs as far away from Sam as possible to flee from Dean’s mind.

Instead of shoving back, pushing Sam off, Dean growls, twists his fingers into his brother’s shirt and leans into the contact.

It’s like watching two rutting Elk fighting over a mate, and the waitress now openly staring at the men leaning up against the bar, has to hang onto the scarred and damp wood standing between her and the pure testosterone-filled display playing out in front of her wide as saucer eyes.

Clearing her throat, just barely keeping the groan from her voice, she whistles and nods towards the front door. “Boys, not that I ain’t enjoying this little floor show, but my other customers ain’t exactly what you’d call _open_ to that kinda thing. Take it outside, would ya?”

Dean’s not willing to let Sam win, not yet, no matter how hard his cock is or how tightly his fingers are gripping the shirt in his hands, but Sam’s not going to risk a beating from a bunch of redneck bar flies, whether he’s angry enough to take them all on, or not.

Hooking his arm around Dean’s neck, Sam twists his body and tightens his grip before bodily dragging his brother from the bar, rushing out into the cool air and pulling him down a darkened side alley.

The waitress, Jeanie, shakes her head and chuckles to herself. “Someone’s about to get fucked, six ways from Sunday.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean’s on the very edge of reason. All thoughts other than the sound of Sam’s heart beat, still pressed tight to his ear, and the blood raging along his veins at the thought of the strength in his brother’s grip, are chased straight from his frustration addled mind.

Needing some distance, some physical space between himself and Sam’s _heat_ , Dean throws his shoulders back and slams his boots into the wall, before kicking backwards, forcing Sam to relinquish his hold. “GET OFF ME!”

Sam stumbles away from Dean, only to have to catch him as he almost lands head first on the grimy pavement. “Stop, Dean, you have to stop.”

Dean growls and pulls away, stumbles upright and pins Sam with a look that screams, _I dare you to push me_.

Sam raises his hands, palm flat, and steps forward. “You can’t keep running, Dean. I never pegged you as a coward. I - “

“Coward?”, The word slips past Dean’s lips and it dredges up a rage he didn’t know he possessed, not where Sam was concerned.

Lashing out, Dean swings a closed fist wildly at Sam’s head.

It’s only Sam’s fast footwork and lithe movements that save him from an ear ringing punch knocking him on his ass. “Coward, Dean, coward. This isn’t something you can run from and I’m not fucking letting you, not any more.”

Dean shouts, lets loose a roar that echoes back off the damp brickwork surrounding them, and lunges at Sam. Managing to get his fingers around Sam’s throat, Dean slams him into the wall, scraping skin from shoulders as he shakes him like a rag doll. “I’m not a **coward**. I didn’t run, I - I - this isn’t **right**. I was trying to save you from - from me, from this fucked up thing between us.”

Sam’s voice is paper thin, a whisper, choked off by the fingers curling dangerously tight around his throat, but he doesn’t break eye contact with Dean as he raises one infuriating eyebrow. “You ever think I don’t **want** to be saved from it, from you?”

Reaching up, peeling away finger after finger, forcibly removing Dean’s hand from his neck, Sam maintains eyecontact as he takes one step forward, making Dean stumble backwards. “Stop me.”

Dean’s amazed at how strong Sam’s become.

Gone is the skinny little kid who couldn’t best his burly big brother.

It scares and thrills Dean all at once.

Curling his lip, Dean attempts to dig his heels in, but Sam’s not giving up his advantage and continues his slow measured strides, pushing Dean across the alleyway, until his shoulders are butting up against the mildew covered bricks digging into his back. “Stop me, Dean. I dare you.”

The anger in Sam’s gaze has abated a little but there’s a fire burning behind his eyes that telegraphs into the erratic ripping of fingers against denim and metal, and Dean hisses when his cock is exposed to the icy air.

Dean wants to shove Sam away, wants to put as much distance between himself and Sam’s saliva slicked lips that he keeps licking and quirking in Dean’s direction, but he’s incapable of moving, incapable of opening his mouth and protesting.

Instead of tucking himself away and running for the hills, Dean finds himself reaching out, running his fingers through Sam’s messy hair, and pushing him to his knees. “Please.”

Sam doesn’t say a word, simply winks and opens his mouth before ducking forward and engulfing Dean’s cock, sucking him back and humming, allowing the vibrations to rumble off his tongue, which he’s wrapping tightly around the pink pre-come covered tip nudging against the back of his throat.

Dean’s knees almost buckle, it’s only Sam’s shoulders and vicious unrelenting rhythm that keep him from collapsing on the dirty ground. It’s downright embarrassing how quickly Dean feels his dick pulse and twitch, spilling himself into Sam’s wet willing mouth.

Sam closes his eyes and relishes the flavour, the intensity of the memory made flesh, of Dean’s come dribbling from the corners of his lips as he sucks and licks every last drop from the tip of Dean’s cock.

It’s only when Dean’s legs finally give out and Sam has to shoulder his weight upright, that he allows the tip of that delicious dick to fall from his lips.

Pressing Dean into the wall, using it to steady the man now bonelessly leaning against his shoulder, Sam wipes his mouth and smirks, before leaning forward and whispering in Dean’s ear. “New rule, Dean. Every time you’re a dick and try to run from this, I’m going to suck you until your eyes roll up. Positive reinforcement might just do the trick.”

Dean’s too sated to be horrified, he’s too ready to sleep to protest, but he does have the wherewithal to let his lips curl into a grin against Sam’s cheek and whisper back. “Remind me to leave the keys in the ignition.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Your bitch, whether you like it or not.”

 

End.


End file.
